It finally hit me last week: my Dad is gone. I heard the theme song to M*A*S*H, and burst into tears. It took me a few minutes to process what had triggered my sobbing attack: I grew up watching M*A*S*H with my Dad, every week, like clockwork. I still remember crying during the final episode (not so my Dad could see, of course). So when I watch M*A*S*H, I will always think of Dad.
It’s taken me this long to actually deal with the fact that he’s gone. So many bad things happened this past winter . . . I had a good cry, and thought about other things we did together. He used to put me on the back of his motorcycle and ride around the countryside in North Carolina with me. It terrified me, but I loved it. He tried to get me to play sports, but I was always a disappointment. I hated baseball, I hated soccer, I hated tennis, I hated anything that made me realize how scrawny and physically awkward I was. But Dad would sign me up for little league, or tennis lessons, or season after season of soccer, ever hopeful that something would stick. He’d force me out into the yard so we could toss the baseball, when I really wanted to be inside playing with my Atari or my Star Wars figures (or next door with Gina, playing with her Barbies. Shhh!). We used to watch Carl Sagan’s Cosmos on PBS on Sunday nights. Or at least, he would watch it, and I would pass out cold after about a half an hour of Dr. Sagan’s mellow drone, and Dad would wake me up at the end to put me to bed.
As I grew older, we grew further apart, especially after I came out. I still think kicking me out of the house was the best thing my Dad ever did for me: it forced me to grow up, gain my independence, and find my own success. It came with a high price, though; I had to make new family, new friends, and rely entirely on myself. My parents made it pretty clear they didn’t want anything to do with my new life, so for 20+ years I lived hundreds, often thousands of miles away, with the occasional phone call or holiday visit serving as my connection to their world.
In recent years, as they grew older (and so did I), our relationship changed. They became more accepting of me, going so far as to ask after my then-partner, including him in Christmas cards, and so on. I actually brought him to my parents’ house once, the first time I’ve ever done that, and they got along with each other famously.
Dad and I talked more often, with work as a common topic (both of us were DBAs). We still butted heads on a number of things (especially politics), but it was as equals. I still don’t really feel reconnected to my family, and I’m not sure I ever will, but in the end, we had come to a sort of peace about the past, uneasy as it was. I am so grateful that, the last time I spoke with him over the phone, our last words to each other were, “I love you.”
So rest in peace, Pop. I do love you, and I miss you.